


Sharing Kisses, Building a Bomb

by bitt



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Choking, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Kidnapped Reader, Kidnapping, Lima Syndrome, Mild Gore, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader-Insert, Sexual Violence, Stockholm Syndrome, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-08-25 17:57:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16665520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitt/pseuds/bitt
Summary: A madman has kidnapped you, and you're determined to escape. Why does he keep calling you beautiful?PLEASE mind the tags.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags! Fic title is taken from Getting Naked, Playing With Guns by AJJ. If I've fucked up anything Australian please let me know.

You awake to the smell of - sulphur? It reeks of rotten eggs and old sweat, and you can’t recall what you last ate but the bile rising in your throat threatens to show you.

The air is filled with amber dust, and your head is filled with spinning. Where the fuck are you?

You try to speak, but find your mouth gagged. You try to remove the gag, but find your arms bound to your sides. Anxiety increasing, you try to go over last night’s events.

Last night… you were at a bar. Not your usual haunt, but you were… tired. Exhausted. You’d just quit your soul sucking desk job in a fit of rage. The idiot manager had “lost” the time off request you’d submitted weeks ago, and was now demanding that you work the holiday. Again. Just like he’d done the last three holidays. You screamed in his face that he was a fucking asshole and stormed out, feeling a strong need to drink. And so: the bar.

You were never a heavy drinker, but the anger and shame you felt over wasting seven years of your twenties as a replaceable cubical zombie needed to drown. Shots of tequila were followed by more shots of tequila, and eventually you balked at the cost and went to cheap piss-beer.

Most of the night is a blur, but you remember getting annoyed by a tall man who walked funny. He smiled at you, more like a sneer, with yellow teeth and yellower eyes, and tried to buy you a drink. You told him to fuck off. You were in no mood to be friendly.

Oh, you think, the splitting headache you have now is a hangover. Probably. It’s worse than any hangover you’ve ever had before. Thinking too hard hurts. Blinking even hurts. Now, tied up and with a filthy rag in your mouth, you look around the scene you’re in.

The amber dust is thick, and a few broken window blinds allow in just enough sunlight to let you see it, flitting and glittering. You’re in a room, a shitty one, with sandy wood floors and walls of dark, bare planks. There’s two doors in your field of vision, one with at least eight different deadbolts, which seems to lead outside, and another with nothing like security, which is slightly ajar. The place is wretched. Empty fast food wrappers litter the floor, and a sofa with questionable stains sits in front of a three-legged coffee table. In the corner, you see a small breakfast table inexplicably adorned with a tattered tablecloth, upon which rests a delicate teapot and two cups: one a dainty porcelain teacup with a soft pink rose painted lovingly on it, and the other a nasty Mason Ball jar that appears to contain motor oil. Two chairs are on either side, both appropriately banged up.

Usually now you’d bite your nails, or chew your lip, or fuck with your hair, but none of that is an option. Your breathing gets rapid, what the fuck what the fuck what the FUCK where are you? Did you get kidnapped? You’re an adult, can adults get fucking kidnapped? Oh God!

You know you should try to steady yourself, but that’s such a distant concept from your current panic attack. Adrenaline hits you like a bigass truck, slamming itself into your veins all at once. You need to get out, NOW. The chair you’re tied to seems shaky, and pretty light, so okay! Okay! You grip the bottom edge of the seat with your fingers and lean forward, attempting to hop to something, anything, that you can use to free yourself. Maybe a knife? There might be a bread knife on the table. Maybe you can smash the teapot and use a shard of it to cut the ropes. You keep lurching forward, making your headache worse but possibly getting you closer to freedom. You only travel an inch or two at a time, desperately hoping that there’s no one to hear the racket you’re making by hitting the chair against the floor so much. Oh shit, you’re making a lot of noise. Like, a lot. Shit.

You stop for a moment, listening intently. Any signs of life?

Shit. You hear soft snores from the room to your left, the one with the door cracked. Christ. At any moment, whoever is snoring could wake up, and potentially attack you. Making any more noise could rouse them and your goose would be cooked; but if you stay still they’d get to you eventually and there’s another dead bird.

Seconds which feel like years pass, and you decide to risk it. You’d rather die knowing you tried to run, instead of waiting like a lamb at the slaughter. You start your awkward lurch again, the chair’s legs screeching against the floor.

_Clank. Thump. Clank. Thump. Clank. Thump._ Fuck. Footsteps?

“Oi! What are you tryna do?”

Fuck. You hop faster, desperate to escape your apparent captor.

“You really think you can get outta here?” It was a man’s voice, familiar, somehow. “Don’t be stupid. I’ve got you all tied up, haven’t I?”

You’ve heard him before, but can’t place where. _Clank thump clank thump clank thump clank_.

“C’mon, stop that. Stop it!” Before you know it he’s much louder, right behind you. His hands grips your shoulder, pulling you backwards enough that your feet are off the floor, leaving you to balance on the back legs of the chair. “Don’t be such a dickhead.”

Frantic, you muster up all of your strength and jerk forward, and much to your surprise the man lets you go. You fall face first onto the dirty wood below you.

 

 

————————————————————————————

 

 

When you come to, your entire body feels stiff and sore. Warmth trickles down your face; you must’ve gotten a cut from the fall. You’re in a different room now, just as gross as the last one. This one has no windows, and there’s a bare mattress on the floor in the corner. The chair is gone, but the rope still binds you. The floor is cold underneath you, and you assume it’s nighttime. A string of fairy lights is hung up over the mattress, in what must be an attempt at coziness.

“You’re a real smart cunt, aren’t ya?” The man giggles, sounding like a hyena on nitrous oxide. It’s unnerving to hear someone who towers over you giggle, but so is everything else happening lately. “You didn’t act too smart back at the bar. I just wanted to buy you a drink. Bitch.”

You groan into your gag, mostly in pain but partially in annoyance. Everything hurts and this fucker has to keep prattling on at you? He’s probably going to kill you and your last memories will be listening to a stranger insult you.

_Oh hey genius, he’s probably going to kill you!_ Christ!

He’s pacing the room, staring at you. You see now, it’s not just that he walks funny: he thuds around with a peg leg. You’ve known plenty of people with prosthetic limbs, but they usually go for something that resembles an organic limb, not a fucking stick. Does he think he’s a pirate? Oh, he’s got a regular looking prosthetic arm, which makes the peg even weirder. Is the pain making you loopy? Nothing feels real right now.

“Fuck you lookin’ at?” He seems to expect an answer, but all you can do is give a tiny, weak shrug. “You might as well be polite. I’m not gonna hurt ya.”

You can’t help it - you scoff, but he doesn’t appear to notice. Of course he’s gonna hurt you.

He sighs. “You’re bleeding. Hold on.” He exists the dingy room, and for a moment you’re alone. You wriggle, just a little, in your binds, but it hurts so much. You’ll have to wait until your headache stops.

When the man comes back he’s holding a rag that looks cleaner than anything else you’ve seen here, and a tube of antibiotic gel. He presses the rag to your face, and at first you’re sure it must be soaked in chloroform, but it’s just warm water. He wipes the blood from your cuts. “They’re small but they could get infected,” he says, quietly, apparently to himself. “Wouldn’t want that.”

His hand is heavily calloused, but his touch is surprisingly gentle. He cradles your chin in his metal hand, and with the very tips of his not-metal fingers applies antibiotic to the wounds. It feels too tender, too intimate, and you shudder. None of this makes sense.

“There.” He’s finished, and steps back to admire his work. “How do you - ah, fuck, that’s still on!” He hastily unties the gag and finally frees your mouth. “How do you feel?”

You try to scream, but your voice is hoarse and comes out as a faint whisper.

“God, you’re beautiful.” What?

Again you fail to scream, so you push out a few soft words. “Who are you?”

“Mostly people call me Junkrat. You don’t recognize me?” He grins, all crooked teeth and too-bright eyes. “They got my picture up at every bottle-o nowadays. Asking price 25,000,000, unless it went up.”

You shake your head, and he runs a hand through his patchy hair. His smile fades, but comes back after a few seconds of reflection.

“Well, you know me now! We’re gonna be real good mates. I leveled that pub, but you were so pretty, I had to take you home.”

“What?”

“The bar we met at! You were the only good thing there. I couldn’t let you die in the explosion. I saved you!” He pauses, expectant.

“Th-thanks?”

He seems satisfied with that. “Well, it’s getting pretty late. C’mon, you must be tired.” He grabs your shoulders and pulls you onto the mattress, forcing you to lie on your side. He fetches a tatty blanket from somewhere on the floor, and drapes it over you. You wish you could say something, to stop whatever weird shit this is, but words escape you. Before you know it, he’s sidling up behind you, pressing his body against yours. His organic arm lazily flops over your side, holding you much tighter that you’d expect.

“Why did you bring me here?” You finally spit out.

He takes a moment, breath hot against your neck. “Shut up, it’s time to sleep. Don’t worry about anything. I’ve got you.”

You can’t help but cry. Your vision gets blurry and your eyes sting, but somehow you manage to keep yourself from sobbing out loud.

Eventually you fall asleep, and you dream of fire raining down from the heavens. You stare into the sky, watching the flames overtake everything you once held dear. When the fire hits you, it knocks you to the ground, and you become engulfed immediately. You don’t mind it. The heat is comfortable.


	2. Chapter 2

The first day with Junkrat is nearly impossible. He wakes you up accidentally, propping you against the wall of the little “bedroom.” He’s beside you, in a low crouch, smelling sour and resting a hand on your leg. You jerk away, but he doesn’t react. Instead, he smiles that disgusting smile and you almost can’t believe that this wasn’t all some crazy nightmare. “Righty or lefty?” he asks, for some reason.

“Uh… righty.”

He nods enthusiastically, and unties your left arm.

“No, I’m right-handed,” you insist.

“Might act up with your good hand.” You would, to be fair.

“Listen, I don’t know what your plan is - “ He presses a grimy finger to your lips, shushing and repulsing you.

“Time for brekkie, y’know? Gotta make a gourmet meal for my gourmet meal.” He stands and hobbles out of the room, tittering to himself all the way.

This room is mostly bare, with nothing potentially helpful to you. You stretch your now-free arm and notice how sore and weak it feels. Suddenly -

_CLANG_

“S’alright!” Junkrat yells, “dropped something! Everything’s fine!” 

You’re so tired. You can’t have been asleep for very long. Your headache is gone, at least.

When your captor returns, he brings that horrible grin and a styrofoam cup in each hand. Curious, you ask “what’s that?” 

“Junker specialty,” he beams, handing you one of the cups. He clears his throat and puts on a posh accent. “Asian-style savory pasta simmered in chicken broth, served with a sampling of garden vegetables.”

“…This is cup o’ noodles.”

“Just eat it.” He pulls a (definitely not clean) fork from his pants pocket, and sits next to you on the floor. With great concentration, he spins the fork in the cup you’re holding, lifts out a swath of noodles, and shoves them into your mouth. They’re undercooked and chewy, but you haven’t eaten in so long. You suppress your gag reflex and eat. “There we go… Can’t have you starving. Gotta keep your energy up.”

“For what?” you say between bites.

With narrowed eyes, he pauses, fork midair. “I guess I oughta stop being so cagey.” A deep sigh, and he feeds you a bit more. “It’s hard being on the run. Gets lonely. Spendin’ all my time at this hideout- well, y’know. I’m a bit weird, sure, but I’m normal in a lotta ways. There’s things I need. Things I want.”

“I don’t really understand.” You try to tread lightly, not sure what to think. “You’re lonely? You wanted a friend?”

That was hilarious to him, and overcome with giggles he drops your fork. He’s nearly crying with laughter, but he lightly touches your cheek with his prosthetic hand. “Nah, darl. I wanted a hole to fuck.”

 

 

______

 

 

Days passed like gas, smelly and uncomfortable. Every morning he woke you up gently, fed you carefully, and then fucked off into another room for most of the day. He came in a few times to check on you, make sure you hadn’t gotten loose. As each night fell, he pulled you against his chest and passed out with his arms around you. Despite his earlier claims, he hadn’t tried to fuck you yet, but the threat was there. This was the pit, he was the pendulum. He’d get you eventually.

He talked so much, there was little to be gained from listening; it was a flood of nonsense. After at a week, you realized he wasn’t talking to you at all - it was all for himself. He wasn’t lying about being lonely.

Was it being alone so much that was making him crazy? Was he sane before, and then unraveled? You wondered about his origins often, since there wasn’t much to do other than watch the sunlight under the door fade. He was one of those Junkers you’d heard rumors about - talk around the water cooler sometimes turned to the wasteland in the middle of Oz, but you were a lifelong city dweller. Junkertown might as well have been in France; it felt about twice that far.

In the soft, butterscotchy light of the morning, he looked like he was in his twenties. As the day progressed and the light hardened, he seemed older and older. He was always so dirty, you’d never seen anyone so unabashedly gross in your whole life. Sometimes before bed he would wipe his face with a damp towel, just to get the grime out of his eyes. That was when he looked the oldest, somewhere around forty or fifty, walking uneven and hunched, groaning every so often. Once, he offered you the same towel, but you shook your head vigorously, because no matter how dirty you were getting here, you’d never be as dirty as him.

You focus on getting through each day, and planning an escape. He had to leave sometime; he said he always stayed at the hideout, but he left to go grab you, didn’t he? There had to be another trip sometime.

Even if there wasn’t, you had to believe there would be.

 

 

______

  

 

“J-Junkrat?” Your voice is hoarse, because he never gives you enough water. “It’s been a few days and my arm is pretty numb.”

“Yeah?” It’s morning and he’s still holding you, but he’s got you turned to face him. 

“Yeah. I promise I won’t be bad, but can you please untie me?” 

He scoffs. “Yeah, nah, can’t do that. You’re not ready yet.” 

Shit. It was a long shot anyway, you reason, so on to plan B. 

“Well, could you swap which of my arms is tied up? I don’t want to lose the whole arm.” You make an effort to look him in the eyes, putting on what you hope desperately is a pleading look.

“Ehhh…” He rolls out of bed and stretches, his spine cracking like that cereal you hate. After a moment, a smirk. “What’s in it for me?"

“I don’t - I don’t know.” Shit. 

“Well, you’ll think of something,” he says, and helps you to your feet. “I can’t say no to you, you’re so pretty.” 

 _But kidnapping me, threatening to rape me, and feeding me shitty noodles? That’s just fine._  

He first ties your left arm back down, and then frees your right, and oh god oh god pins and needles pins and needles fuck

You couldn’t help it: you let out a whine.

“Oh - shit! I hurt you, what happened?”

  _Why the fuck would you care?_

 “I’m sorry baby, I didn’t wanna hurt you, not right now, I’m sorry.” He’s rambling, fussing over you, touching your face and neck and ARM and _oh god stop touching me stop fucking touching me_

 “Get away from me!” You push him away as hard as you can, your arm erupting in even more pain. “Get _away_ you fucking monster!”

 He loses his balance, falling backward and hitting his head against the wall with a resounding thump. Maybe it knocked him out? You don’t know. All you know is to run. You have to get out of this pit. You have to get out.

 

You’re out of the room in seconds, choking on the dust you stir up with every step. Where’s the door? Oh, right there! It’s so close, you’ll be home by dinnertime and you can take a hot bath and then sleep in a real bed again and call the fucking police and-

and suddenly you’re in agony, so much worse than anything you’d ever felt before. At first you can’t even tell where it’s coming from, it feels as if the ground itself has reached up and bitten you. Hell has you in its grip, and you’re on the floor lying in your own blood.

 _I’m going to die here, I’m going to die Jesus Christ I’m going to fucking DIE here and no one’s going to know what happened to me!_  

Your eyes are shifting wildly, searching for whatever is hurting you, and there’s nothing but - oh, Jesus - it’s a fucking bear trap, clamped around your leg. You see your calf muscle, just directly see it, and your stomach churns. You’re not supposed to see that, skin should be there.

 You have to get out! You angle yourself enough to press your good foot against the edge of the closed trap. Its metal teeth are stained red, and it’s your blood oh god. No time to get scared, have to get out, but you have zero experience with anything like this. Maybe there’s a quick release? You don’t see one.

 

_Clank. Thump. Clank. Thump. Clank. Thump._

no no no

_Clank. Thump. Clank. Thump. Clank. Thump._

The pendulum swings toward you.

_Clank. Thump. Clank._

“Gotcha!”


	3. Chapter 3

“Didn’t want it to happen like this, but you pushed it.”

He’s carrying you back to the bed, like a sick parody of a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. You wish you could struggle, but you’re losing blood and overwhelmed with this entire fucking situation. Why did this have to happen? You were a good person, weren’t you? Is this a punishment for - something? You can’t even think of whatever moral failings you might’ve had before all this.

“Remember, you caused this. I wanted to be romantic.”

He places you on the mattress like you’re a fragile glass figurine. You watch the blood flow from your wounded leg, an expanse of bright red staining the bed. He’s got the rope again, tying your wrists first, then securing them behind your back. It’s too tight, and the smallest movement hurts terribly, but you don’t dare speak up. He steps back, then, and sighs.

“You really are gorgeous. I hate to hurt you, but you didn’t leave me a choice, darl.”

He’s working on unbuttoning your jeans, struggling like a teenager. When he finally gets that taken care of, he gingerly pulls your underwear down and balls them up in his metal hand. With his other hand he grips your chin and forces your mouth open, pushing the underwear between your lips, gagging you. Due to the position of your arms, he can’t lift your shirt over your head, so he just pulls it up to expose your chest.

He steps back, admiring you. His eyes look like they’ve been set aflame, and they’re so, so hungry. That filthy smile, again, and he’s licking his lips. You want to scream, to fight back, but you’re completely at his mercy, even more than before. If you fight too hard he might outright kill you. You weren’t ready to die.

You keep quiet, begging the tears not to come. You wouldn’t let this break you.

His uncut cock is already fully hard when he pulls it out, pumping a few times before lining himself up with your entrance. “Fucking slut,” he coos, “I knew you wanted me this whole time, even if you didn’t know. I’m here, baby, I’m here to show ya the way.”

He’s got you on your back, with your legs up on his shoulders. He pushes inside of you, making your cunt burn from the unwanted intrusion. His dick isn’t huge, but any size would hurt when you were being used like this. _Please stop please it hurts_ you think, _please I don’t deserve this._

“You’re so fuckin tight, shit,” he’s groaning as he starts in earnest, slamming into you so hard it makes your head spin. His metal hand is snaking up to your neck, rough fingers digging into your skin. The joints pinch, and pinpricks of blood dot your throat. Between him choking you and the gag, you can hardly breathe. You try desperately to push the gag from your mouth, to take back whatever air you can.

You think of your old life, boring, simple, but safe. You’d give anything to be back there, you’d take back your horrible job with the shithead boss and the tiny cubicle, you’d go home to your apartment with the shower spiders, you’d call your parents finally and try to reconnect with your sister. You’d adopt a bigass dog who never let any strangers near you, you’d name him Karl or Brutus or Mr. Snaps. Something intimidating and easy to yell when you got scared.

And you would be scared for so long, probably forever. You would try so hard to forget this, the night you were abducted from a dive bar and then violated so completely for days, maybe weeks after. You’re trying to forget it now, as it’s happening, tears streaming down your face and mixing with the blood he’d drawn from your throat.

You close your eyes and try to forget. Hell, you try to pretend this is all some elaborate nightmare. _It must be, right?_ The whole concept is ridiculous, things like this usually happen with people the victim knows, not a maniac that you’d never met before.

_This is a dream_ , you repeat, _this is a dream this is a dream this is just a dream…_  

But still he's choking you, and when he sees that your eyes are squeezed shut he finally lets go. You gasp, head already light, but the relief is short. He slaps you, hard, and the metal hand feels like a wrench hitting you in the face. “Look at me,” he says in a deep growl that doubles your heart rate, “don’t ever look away from me when I’m fucking you.”

At first you can’t stand look at him, but after a few more hits you force yourself to stare at him with unfocused eyes. He’s not smiling now, more like baring his teeth. His breathing is ragged, and every exhale is sour and sickening, hot on your face and neck. He bites his bottom lip as he gives you one last, terrible thrust, and suddenly he’s coming on your stomach. You want to vomit.

“Perfect, darl, just fuckin’ perfect.”

 

 

 

______

 

 

 

Your skin feels wrong. It isn’t yours, it doesn’t belong to you anymore. He’s marred you with cuts and bruises, and now he sits beside you, wiping away your drying blood and applying antibiotic ointment to the minor things. 

“Sorry I got so pushy, baby, but now you know just how much I care about you.” He’s being too soft, too gentle. Almost loving. He’s mostly working with his organic hand, fingers calloused but nimble as they lightly spread the ointment over the injuries he caused. The medicine stings. Even healing hurts. He leans forward, kissing your forehead carefully. You’re too tired to pull back.

_Shitstain._

Now he’s wrapping a bandage around the gash in your calf. “That must’ve hurt.” 

_Motherfucker._

“But it’s gonna get better, I promise. I step in ‘em all the time, so I know just how to treat it! Just gotta stay off that leg for a while, which won’t be a problem for you. I’ll take care of ya.”

_Bastard._

“The damn traps have snapped this leg in half a couple times,” he smacks his stupid fucking pirate leg leg, “I’ve had to crawl ‘round this place a fair bit.”

“Fucking asshole.” Oh shit you said it out loud that time.

“Don’t be stupid, I’m not going to fuck your asshole right now.”

Maybe his hearing is bad? You hear explosions going off sometimes when he’s out of the room, maybe he’s deafened himself a little.

“There we are,” he sighs, “now, I bet you’re exhausted from all that hard work. Let’s have a nap, then I’ve got a special treat for ya.”

Despite everything, you fall asleep in his arms.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief description of a spider, nothing terrible.

The next time you awoke, you were alone. Junkrat wasn’t beside you, and for the first time in ages you breathe a sigh of relief. The fairy lights above the bed are slowly starting to go out; more than half of them have died. It was getting darker and darker by the day.

Sitting up, with great difficulty, you try to ignore all the aches and pains. You don’t want to think about what caused them. You don’t want to think about anything at all, really, but your damned survival instincts are still sounding off in your head. _Run for it!_

No, your leg was fucked beyond reason. You’d need a cane to walk at all, much less run.

Maybe you’ll die here. He’d said he wouldn’t hurt you, but he’s already hurt you more than anyone else ever has. It wouldn’t be outlandish to assume he would be too rough one day and kill you by accident.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. You’re different, now. If you were dead, you wouldn’t have to deal with any of this. You’d be free from this maniac, at least.

Your pants and underwear are crumpled up in the corner, and your shirt is still pulled up. He said he’d wanted a hole to fuck, and here you were. You had no other use.

Your stomach gurgles, demanding anything of substance. It’s entirely a physical desire - you’re repulsed knowing that your next meals would all be over salted, over processed, undercooked noodles. Because of your escape attempt and the subsequent assault, Junkrat hadn’t fed you today. You realize, sickeningly, that you depend on him to feed you. You depend on him for everything.

There’s a spider crawling along the wall, and you watch her. She’s building a web, right in the corner of the ceiling. What little you remember from biology classes, a million years ago, comes back in fits and spasms. She’s mostly black, with a big swipe of scarlet down her back. _Redback? Yeah, redback._ Her web is inelegant, strips of silk arranged with no sense of taste or order. She’s probably poisonous. _No, wait, venomous._ The spiders you’d see from time to time back home were bigger than this one, but less dangerous. She moves with purpose, contrary to the chaos of her new home. This tiny arachnid is the first living thing you’ve seen in so long that hadn’t been actively hurting you. You feel a tug in your throat at the realization. Judging by the state of this place, you’re actually surprised that she’s the first spider you’ve seen here.

The light under the door grows dimmer and dimmer, hours passing relentlessly. There’s no sign of your captor, and eventually the sparse, festive string lights are the only thing keeping you from total darkness. How long had you been alone? _Not alone,_ you insist to yourself, _I’ve got my little spider friend._ It’s the tiniest bit easier, you think, to have her here.

Your leg is killing you. The only thing keeping you awake in the faint light is the pain, and you thank it. You’ve fallen asleep every other night here, against your will, and every morning you’re disappointed that you haven’t woken up from this nightmare. So you stay awake, and the stinging in your calf and the aching in your stomach are all you really feel.

 

____

 

When the sun comes back, bit by bit, you notice your bandages have been tinted a faint pink from soaking up your blood. How long did you bleed? Your friend in the corner is finished with her web, still messy but at least ready to catch something.

Another day passes in the blink of an eye. Your memory is fuzzy, blurring together everything.

And another day.

And another day.

Your spider is gone. Her web is intact, never touched by flies. You cry for her, just a little.

You can’t remember how long it’s been since you last ate. You sleep terribly and frequently, waking often from hunger pangs before passing out again from exhaustion and boredom. The pain in your leg fades in and out, just like everything else.

_I’m going to die here._

You don’t care. You hope it comes soon.

_What happened to Junkrat?_

Doesn’t matter.

_He’s a criminal, maybe he got arrested?_

Doesn’t matter.

_Maybe the police are on their way to save me?_

Do you really think you deserve that, you broken, useless thing? You’re worthless and wretched, just as dirty as him. You suit each other so well. A pair of filthy fucking creatures.

Another day passes.

You’ve forgotten hunger. Your throat feels like you swallowed a dozen knives, and you’d do anything for a glass of water.

_Why did he leave me?_

You try to crawl out of the bedroom, not caring anymore about how badly it hurts to move your leg. Nothing mattered but thirst. You don’t get far before fainting, but when you come to, you keep pushing yourself. You’ll die here, fine. You’re not dying thirsty.

 

____

 

He finds you collapsed against the door, fingernails broken from clawing at the wood.

He changes out your bandages and gives you something for pain. He carries you (lighter now) back to the bed, pulling you into his lap. You’re too weak to fight as he holds you, humming softly and muttering softer. He gives you water, letting you sip from the cool glass for as long as you need. You can’t remember being taken care of like this before. It’s like being a child, stricken with something terminal, miraculously nursed back to health with motherly kindness.

You were used to living in the city, where you were always surrounded by people. Hearing your neighbors through paper-thin walls, riding alongside busloads of strangers, working in an office with more employees than you’d ever be able to meet - it felt as natural as a blue sky to feel the heartbeat of millions in and out of tune with yours. This period completely alone was so foreign, even this monster was a relief beside you. He was alive, and breathing, and that meant so much. As he held you, his too-warm skin against your own, cold and clammy, you could feel his heart beating. Alive. Alive.

“Poor sweetie,” he says, placing a kiss on your forehead. “You been so good, waiting up for me. I didn’t mean to be away so long. You happy to see me?”

You nod. His company is better than nothing.

“I went out to get you some nice treats, but I got held up by a coupla wankers. But I’m here now! I’m home with you.” He gives you another kiss, on your cheek this time, before carefully reaching over the edge of the bed to grab a battered paper sack. “I got a few things, but I’ll give you this first. You gotta be hungry by now.”

Again you nod, much faster this time. He smiles, looking overjoyed about your emphatic response. You didn’t notice before, but he has a gold tooth, and it catches the light, almost sparkling.

He pulls a big takeaway box from the bag, and the smell of something vaguely Chinese floods your nostrils, making your mouth water. Gingerly, he raises an egg roll to your lips, and you take the biggest bite you can manage. Cold, but _food._ You eat so, so much. You’re so happy you could cry.

You forget why you’re here, getting lost in the joy of no longer being alone.


	5. Chapter 5

He brought you presents. When he’d spoken before of a “special treat,” you’d been terrified, sure that another attack was coming, but no. He brought you a nightgown, made of cool, light cotton. It was plain, but lovely, a pale blue-green with short sleeves and a lacy hem.

“Before you put this on,” he says, eyes bright, “you should clean up.”

Alarmed, you wonder if he’s about to fetch a mop and make you clean the shack, but he ducks out of the room and returns with a small washcloth and a pail of water. He unties you now, fully, and you stretch your very, very sore arms.

“Here,” he eases your few remaining clothes off, and dunks the washcloth into the pail. Gently, like a summer breeze, he runs the cloth over your face, then your neck, then your chest. You bristle, but he’s too soft, not implying anything with his touch. He cleans you, and that’s all. You’ve been filthy for so long here, the water against your skin feels like a blessing.

“Thank you,” you say, and mean it.

This surprises him - is he blushing? Baffling.

“Oh, it’s uh - it’s not anythin’, I’m just - tryna be nice, y’know.”

“I was so scared. I thought I was gonna die here.”

“I’d never let that happen. I gotta take care o’ ya.”

 

-

 

Once you’re clean, he helps you up. It hurts like hell to put any weight on your wounded leg, so you balance as much as you can on the good one, wobbling significantly.

“C’mon, don’t be shy,” he says, and moves your hand onto his shoulder, guiding you to lean on him. He’s so warm. “One arm at a time, darl.”

The nightgown is too big, but it feels wonderful to be clean and wearing something different. Your clothes before reeked of cheap beer and days worth of fear-sweat, but this smells vaguely floral, probably a holdover from whatever store he stole it from.

“Since you got a bum leg now, I thought I’d help you around a bit more. Can you stay steady against the wall for a tic?”

“I think so.”

“Okay! Wait here.” In an instant he’s gone, and in an instant he’s back. You’re glad, because more than a second alone now would be torture. “Ta-da!”

He’s pushing an old wheelchair towards you. You haven’t seen one of these in years - everyone who needs one uses hoverchairs nowadays. Wheels are almost antiques. “Oh my god, where did you find that?”

“Ehhhhh, nowhere important. Definitely didn’t blow anybody up for it.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry, baby. It’s all ours now.” He wheels it right up behind you, and you plop down into it.

The wheelchair is not comfortable, but you don’t care. You can _move_. Before you let yourself bask in this new mobility, you need answers. This is all so much, so all at once. Swallowing hard, you go for it. “Junkrat?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you being nice to me? After…” you falter, “after what happened.”

He chuckles, nearly nervous, absentmindedly scratching his ear. “I’ve always been nice. You finally stopped fighting me.”

“I’m sorry,” you hear yourself say, unprompted. Did you mean that?

“No worries, darl. Everyone gets a bit fucked up sometimes. You just didn’t know how much I cared about you.” He kneels down in front of you, the metal joint of his false knee hitting the floor with a hollow _thunk._ He’s at your level, looking right into your eyes, intense. “I’d do anything for you. Anything you need, even if you don’t know you need it. You didn’t know you needed me, but I’m here. And I’ll never let you go.”

Your stomach twists, and you’re scared but you’re not _only_ scared. Something else is there, hiding behind your horror, something that makes a chill run down your spine.

 

-

 

The last gift is a bed sheet. He spreads it over the shitty bed, and when you lie upon it you feel like royalty. It’s not _that_ nice, of course, but the contrast from the impossibly grimy bare mattress is insane.

When he decides it’s time for bed, you join him willingly. You’ve spent so many nights in a row alone, you don’t mind his arm slung over you. You feel tired deep down in your bones, and when sleep takes you, you can’t imagine fighting it.

You dream of your spider, but her web is huge and made from golden thread. It hangs low of the doorway to your childhood bedroom, and you watch her spin more and more beautifully. You hope she’ll find the flies she needs.

 

—

 

Breakfast is noodles again, but he lets you feed yourself. It’s different, being in control of this. You’ve fed yourself for years but now it feels strange, alien, not quite right. Junkrat sits on the bed and you’re in your wheelchair, and together you eat the cheap noodles while he babbles about something you don’t understand.

He lets you roll into the other room with him, the room you heard him snoring from on your first day here. You marvel at the workspace he’s made, where he puts together any number of things from salvaged scrap.He’s very smart, you realize. He built his own prosthetics; he shows you how the wrist joint works. (“She was a tricky bitch, but I figured it out,” he says, beaming.)

Several metal tables line the walls, and wrenches, screwdrivers, and hammers are tossed everywhere. The chaos is almost admirable - the idea of getting anything done with your surroundings in such disarray seems impossible, but he’s steadily worked in here for ages.

There’s a strange object on one of the metal tables, a small length of PVC pipe wrapped in clear packing tape. Held on by the tape are a mess of scrap, nuts and bolts and screws and nails. The ends of the pipe are stuffed with something you don’t recognize, and from one end a tangled piece of (maybe?) twine sticks out.

“Is that - “

“What’s it look like?”

You drum your fingers over your wheels. “It looks like a pipe bomb.”

“And not just any pipe bomb! This beauty is small, but she’ll flatten this whole country if I want her to.”

“You made this?”

“Nah, she just stopped by for tea one day. Of course I made it!”

“Is this what you do? Make bombs?”

He smiles so big you’d think he won the lottery. For the next few hours he goes on and on about explosives, telling you about the different types of bombs he’d built over the years, and a few that he planned to build once he got his hands on the right materials. He pulls out a gun that shot grenades the size of billiard balls, and excitedly explained that this is a favorite of his, getting him through a great number of fights. He shows you his concussion mines, and their little handheld detonators. (“Cute, ain’t they?”) He waxes poetic about Molotov cocktails flung through bank windows, and his eyes shine so bright they might as well be stars.

When he’s done, you feel like he’d let you in on some grand secret.

 

_____________

 

“Hand me the thing.”

“The wrench?”

“Sure.” He didn’t look at you, too busy with his work. You give him the wrench, and his fingers brush against yours for just a second too long. You should have hated it, but you didn’t.

 

Time passes easily now. Your leg isn’t healing right, he told you, so you don’t try to stand. He’s been getting better at making the noodles, even cracking an egg into the cup at your suggestion. Every day he tells you about various crimes he’s committed - the heists, the robberies, the car chases. He tells you about the night he took you home, seeing you so fucked up and crying at the bar.

“You were so lovely,” he says, “your cheeks were all rosy. A buncha guys were tryin’ ta hit on you, but you wouldn’t talk to ‘em. They were mad, but you didn’t care.”

“I don’t remember much of that night,” you say, “I just wanted to get plastered.”

“Why’d you wanna get plastered?” He drops the wrench ( _clang_ ) and holds out his metal hand. “Another screw, darl.”

“My boss was being a real fuckhead, so I quit my job. I really don’t have enough money to quit a job, but I guess…” You almost laugh, passing him a screw. “I guess that doesn’t matter now.”

“S’alright,” he says, “when I’m done with this, we won’t have to worry about money. The big bank has a fat vault and we’re gonna crack it right open and take every last cent.”

“We are?”

“O’ course, baby,” he pushes his stool back from the table, finally facing you. “You and me, we’re together now, ain’t we? I told you I’d take care of you.”

You feel a lump in your throat, shoving down all the words you want to say. You never agreed to be an accomplice to his schemes, and it’s the first you’ve heard of whatever bank he’s planning to hit. He’s been kind to you for such a long time now, and the pain he’d put you through before was far in the past. He wouldn’t hurt you anymore, would he?

“My leg is still fucked up,” you say, “I can’t rob a bank in a wheelchair.”

“That’s why it’s brilliant!” He jumps up, “I put this around your neck, you pass a note to the teller, we get big bickies!” He holds up the thing he’s been working on. It’s a big circle, like an oversized handcuff. He acts as if this tells you all you need to know. When he notices how perplexed you look, he frowns. “What, are you stupid? This is a collar bomb. I haven’t added the bomb yet.”

You feel more than a little shocked. You never thought he’d put you in such direct danger, but you supposed that there must be a good reason for it. After all, he wanted to take care of you. With enough money you could leave Australia, find a new life somewhere that wasn’t so hot all the time. With enough money, you’d never have to work another desk job again. The two of you could be free.

“Could I go to the bedroom?” you ask, fiddling with the hem of your nightgown. “My leg is hurting heaps and I’d like to lie down.”

“Yeah, fine.” He waves you away, dismissive. It shouldn’t sting, but it does. You’ve upset him.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“But - “

“I said it’s fine.”

You roll to the bedroom, feeling a cold spot in your chest.


End file.
